It would be a comfort to sit with Maybelle, remembering that

Maybelle had buried a baby, dead in the mad flight before Sherman.

There would be solace in Fanny's presence, knowing that she and

Fanny both had lost husbands in the black days of martial law. It

would be grim fun to laugh with Mrs. Elsing, recalling the old

lady's face as she flogged her horse through Five Points the day

Atlanta fell, her loot from the commissary jouncing from her

carriage. It would be pleasant to match stories with Mrs.

Merriwether, now secure on the proceeds of her bakery, pleasant to

say: "Do you remember how bad things were right after the

surrender? Do you remember when we didn't know where our next pair

of shoes was coming from? And look at us now!"

Yes, it would be pleasant. Now she understood why when two ex-

Confederates met, they talked of the war with so much relish, with

pride, with nostalgia. Those had been days that tried their hearts

but they had come through them. They were veterans. She was a

Veteran too, but she had no cronies with whom she could refight old

battles. Oh, to be with her own kind of people again, those people

who had been through the same things and knew how they hurt--and

yet how great a part of you they were!

But, somehow, these people had slipped away. She realized that it

was her own fault. She had never cared until now--now that Bonnie

was dead and she was lonely and afraid and she saw across her

shining dinner table a swarthy sodden stranger disintegrating under

her eyes.

CHAPTER LXI

Scarlett was in Marietta when Rhett's urgent telegram came. There

was a train leaving for Atlanta in ten minutes and she caught it,

carrying no baggage except her reticule and leaving Wade and Ella

at the hotel with Prissy.

Atlanta was only twenty miles away but the train crawled

Interminably through the wet early autumn afternoon, stopping at

every bypath for passengers. Panic stricken at Rhett's message,

mad for speed, Scarlett almost screamed at every halt. Down the

road lumbered the train through forests faintly, tiredly gold, past

red hillsides still scarred with serpentine breastworks, past old

battery emplacements and weed-grown craters, down the road over

which Johnston's men had retreated so bitterly, fighting every step

of the way. Each station, each crossroad the conductor called was

the name of a battle, the site of a skirmish. Once they would have

stirred Scarlett to memories of terror but now she had no thought

for them.

Rhett's message had been:

"Mrs. Wilkes ill. Come home immediately."

Twilight had fallen when the train pulled into Atlanta and a light

misting rain obscured the town. The gas street lamps glowed dully,

blobs of yellow in the fog. Rhett was waiting for her at the depot

with the carriage. The very sight of his face frightened her more

than his telegram. She had never seen it so expressionless before.

"She isn't--" she cried.

"No. She's still alive." Rhett assisted her into the carriage.

"To Mrs. Wilkes' house and as fast as you can go," he ordered the

coachman.

"What's the matter with her? I didn't know she was ill. She

looked all right last week. Did she have an accident? Oh, Rhett,

it isn't really as serious as you--"

"She's dying," said Rhett and his voice had no more expression than

his face. "She wants to see you."

"Not Melly! Oh, not Melly! What's happened to her?"

"She's had a miscarriage."

"A--a-mis--but, Rhett, she--" Scarlett floundered. This

information on top of the horror of his announcement took her

breath away.

"You did not know she was going to have a baby?"

She could not even shake her head.

"Ah, well. I suppose not. I don't think she told anyone. She

wanted it to be a surprise. But I knew."

"You knew? But surely she didn't tell you!"

"She didn't have to tell me. I knew. She's been so--happy these

last two months I knew it couldn't mean anything else."

"But Rhett, the doctor said it would kill her to have another

baby!"

"It has killed her," said Rhett. And to the coachman: "For God's

sake, can't you drive faster?"

"But, Rhett, she can't be dying! I--I didn't and I--"

"She hasn't your strength. She's never had any strength. She's

never had anything but heart."

The carriage rocked to a standstill in front of the flat little

house and Rhett handed her out. Trembling, frightened, a sudden

feeling of loneliness upon her, she clasped his arm.

"You're coming in, Rhett?"

"No," he said and got back into the carriage.

She flew up the front steps, across the porch and threw open the

door. There, in the yellow lamplight were Ashley, Aunt Pitty and

India. Scarlett thought: "What's India doing here? Melanie told

her never to set foot in this house again." The three rose at the

sight of her, Aunt Pitty biting her trembling lips to still them,

India staring at her, grief stricken and without hate. Ashley

looked dull as a sleepwalker and, as he came to her and put his

hand upon her arm, he spoke like a sleepwalker.

"She asked for you," he said. "She asked for you."

"Can I see her now?" She turned toward the closed door of

Melanie's room.

"No. Dr. Meade is in there now. I'm glad you've come, Scarlett."

"I came as quickly as I could." Scarlett shed her bonnet and her

cloak. "The train-- She isn't really-- Tell me, she's better,

isn't she, Ashley? Speak to me! Don't look like that! She isn't

really--"

"She kept asking for you," said Ashley and looked her in the eyes.

And, in his eyes she saw the answer to her question. For a moment,

her heart stood still and then a queer fear, stronger than anxiety,

stronger than grief, began to beat in her breast. It can't be

true, she thought vehemently, trying to push back the fear.

Doctors make mistakes. I won't think it's true. I can't let

myself think it's true. I'll scream if I do. I must think of

something else.

"I don't believe it!" she cried stormily, looking into the three

drawn faces as though defying them to contradict her. "And why

didn't Melanie tell me? I'd never have gone to Marietta if I'd

known!"

Ashley's eyes awoke and were tormented.

"She didn't tell anyone, Scarlett, especially not you. She was

afraid you'd scold her if you knew. She wanted to wait three--till

she thought it safe and sure and then surprise you all and laugh

and say how wrong the doctors had been. And she was so happy. You

know how she was about babies--how much she's wanted a little girl.

And everything went so well until--and then for no reason at all--"

The door of Melanie's room opened quietly and Dr. Meade came out

into the hall, shutting the door behind him. He stood for a

moment, his gray beard sunk on his chest, and looked at the

suddenly frozen four. His gaze fell last on Scarlett. As he came

toward her, she saw that there was grief in his eyes and also

dislike and contempt that flooded her frightened heart with guilt.

"So you finally got here," he said.

Before she could answer, Ashley started toward the closed door.

"Not you, yet," said the doctor. "She wants to speak to Scarlett."

"Doctor," said India, putting a hand on his sleeve. Though her

voice was toneless, it plead more loudly than words. "Let me see

her for a moment. I've been here since this morning, waiting, but

she-- Let me see her for a moment. I want to tell her--must tell

her--that I was wrong about--something."

She did not look at Ashley or Scarlett as she spoke, but Dr. Meade

allowed his cold glance to fall on Scarlett.

"I'll see, Miss India," he said briefly. "But only if you'll give

me your word not to use up her strength telling her you were wrong.

She knows you were wrong and it will only worry her to hear you

apologize."

Pitty began, timidly: "Please, Dr. Meade--"

"Miss Pitty, you know you'd scream and faint."

Pitty drew up her stout little body and gave the doctor glance for

glance. Her eyes were dry and there was dignity in every curve.

"Well, all right, honey, a little later," said the doctor, more

kindly. "Come, Scarlett."

They tiptoed down the hall to the closed door and the doctor put

his hand on Scarlett's shoulder in a hard grip.

"Now, Miss," he whispered briefly, "no hysterics and no deathbed

confessions from you or, before God, I will wring your neck! Don't

give me any of your innocent stares. You know what I mean. Miss

Melly is going to die easily and you aren't going to ease your own

conscience by telling her anything about Ashley. I've never harmed

a woman yet, but if you say anything now--you'll answer to me."

He opened the door before she could answer, pushed her into the

room and closed the door behind her. The little room, cheaply

furnished in black walnut, was in semidarkness, the lamp shaded

with a newspaper. It was as small and prim a room as a

schoolgirl's, the narrow little low-backed bed, the plain net

curtains looped back, the clean faded rag rugs on the floor, were

so different from the lavishness of Scarlett's own bedroom with its

towering carved furniture, pink brocade draperies and rose-strewn

carpet.

Melanie lay in the bed, her figure under the counterpane shrunken

and flat like a little girl's. Two black braids fell on either

side of her face and her closed eyes were sunken in twin purple

circles. At the sight of her Scarlett stood transfixed, leaning

against the door. Despite the gloom of the room, she could see

that Melanie's face was of a waxy yellow color. It was drained of

life's blood and there was a pinched look about the nose. Until

that moment, Scarlett had hoped Dr. Meade was mistaken. But now

she knew. In the hospitals during the war she had seen too many

faces wearing this pinched look not to know what it inevitably

presaged.

Melanie was dying, but for a moment Scarlett's mind refused to take